


my friend hamilton (whom I shot)

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [35]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Birthday Cake, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm tagging M because of the non-con, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Politics, President Hamilton, This turned way darker than I planned, Trans Thomas Jefferson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:19:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9611174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: A knock diverted Aaron's attention away from the reports he had been reading. Before he could shoo the person away, the door to his office was unceremoniously slammed open. In came Alexander, holding a cake. Aaron frowned at it. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded."Happy birthday, Aaron Burr, sir!" Alexander beamed.Also featuring snacks in the Senate, creepy BuzzFeed articles, and an exploration of Thomas' character.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So *dissolves into giggles* Sorry. Story time: I was walking down the street this morning, when I got the idea that, except for celebrating Hamilton, Washington, Jefferson, and Madison's birthdays, I should also put together something for Burr's birthday. So I decide to look up when that indecisive fence-sitter was born, and guess what answer I get? TODAY. Long story short, I've been writing this for the past several hours.
> 
> So, without further ado, happy birthday, Aaron Burr!

_Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
Daily PSA: The Second Amendment has always been about state militias being able to supply their own troops with guns.

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
It's got nothing with individual private people owning guns. That's just a stupid idea.

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
This goes especially for @realDonaldTrump and @SenGeorgeClark .

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
This has been: your daily PSA.

* * *

A knock diverted Aaron's attention away from the reports he had been reading. Before he could shoo the person away, the door to his office was unceremoniously slammed open. In came Alexander, holding a cake. Aaron frowned at it. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Happy birthday, Aaron Burr, sir!" Alexander beamed, not one to be deterred by Aaron's grumpiness.

Aaron bit his cheek to keep from blurting out something he'd later regret. He didn't know if he wanted to thank Alexander for the surprisingly thoughtful gesture, or reprimand him for wasting time and effort on such an inconsequential matter.

"Do you like it?" Alexander was watching him, eyes gleaming with expectations. He absorbed Aaron's passive face. "Say something," he pleaded.

Aaron surveyed the cake speculatively. "It's very... cake-like," he said eventually.

Alexander groaned. "Burr, for God's sake, be a little more expressive. Look, I did the frosting myself!" he said proudly, not unlike a five-year-old showing off their horribly inaccurate drawings of their parents.

"And just how much of the kitchen did you ruin beyond recognition?" Aaron drawled.

Alexander pouted. "You don't trust me."

"With my life? Yes. With preparing food? _No way in hell_."

"You're such a joykill," Alexander whined. "Shut up and enjoy your cake. President's orders."

"The fact that you manage to not only keep this country afloat but also make progress continues to astound me," Aaron grumbled.

"I know I'm amazing," Alexander shot him a dazzling smile.

“Alexander," Aaron warned. “What are you _really_ doing here?”

“What, can't I visit my favourite attorney general?”

“In case you haven't noticed,” Aaron deadpanned, “I am your _only_ attorney general.”

“Look, I even bright plates and forks," Alexander continued, gesturing at the objects underneath the cake.

“Alexander—“ Aaron repeated.

Alexander snorted at Aaron's voice, but his face sobered up under Aaron's glare. " _Okay._ As you are no doubt aware, today is your birthday. Your _former_ birthday," he amended quickly when Aaron opened his mouth to correct him. "I know you, Aaron Burr. You have always been prone to brooding over your — _our_ — past, and I know that you feel guilt over your actions at Weehawken, and that you are going to sit here and brood about it all alone instead of doing what every sane person would do and talking it out with someone."

"Yes, because sharing has worked out for you so well," Aaron said sarcastically.

Alexander rolled his eyes. "I'm the president, aren't I? If you're not going to talk, at least shut up and listen. My point is, you are prone to moping, so I'm going to sit here with you until you do."

Aaron closed his eyes. He let out a deep breath. "Very well," he said, turning back to the case file. He attempted to shut Alexander out, and was successful for several minutes.

His concentration was eventually broken by the sound of someone swallowing and clicking their tongue. He looked up, suppressing a groan. Alexander, having settled into the chair in front of Aaron's desk, had cut the cake into smaller morsels, and was happily munching on one of them. "Cake?" he offered cheerfully when he noticed Aaron's stare, pushing a bit of cake in Aaron's direction. A little frosting was stuck on his nose.

"You have frosting on your nose," Aaron felt the need to point out, his obsessive-compulsiveness rearing its ugly head.

Alexander shrugged. "Maybe I do," he tried to reach the frosting with his tongue.

"That's disgusting," Aaron informed him. "And unhygienic."

Alexander smiled. "I'll stop if you eat a piece," he poked at Aaron, who withdrew his arm.

"That's blackmail. That, _right there_ , is blackmail," Aaron glowered, reaching for the cake.

Alexander rolled his eyes. "Oh yes. Blackmailed into eating chocolate cake. What torture it must be for you. I'm sure everybody will pity you."

"Chocolate cake?" Aaron groaned. "I'm lactose intolerant," he pushed the plate away from him.

Alexander pushed it back in his direction. "Lactose-free. I'd be a lousy friend if I didn't know that you are lactose intolerant. So is Jemmy, for the matter, but he's much more difficult to find chocolate for.”

Aaron stared at the cake without really seeing it, processing Alexander's words. Alexander waved his hand in front of Aaron's eyes. "Hey," he called out, "the cake isn't going to eat itself. Do I need to spoon-feed you? Because I don't know whether your dignity will permit you that kind of indignation," he cracked a smile.

"It's just — how can you forgive me?" Aaron asked out of the blue. "I literally _killed you_."

Alexander sighed. "Let me say it again: _I forgive you_. I do. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. Remember, I'm here," he gestured to himself, although it looked more like he was swatting flies. "I'm alive. I'm fine. More than fine, actually."

"I don't know how you have managed to forgive me," Aaron went on, ignoring Alexander with practiced ease that spoke of years of experience, "let alone become my friend again."

"That's who I am," Alexander shrugged. "Alexander Hamilton, your friend, whom you shot."

Aaron was torn between scolding Alexander for his morbid sense of humour, and being a horrible cliché. He settled on taking a leaf out of Alexander's playbook. "I don't deserve you," be stated plaintively.

Alexander smiled. "I don't know about that — after all, I _did_ shit-talk you and practically singlehandedly destroy your career. I think we deserve each other – or, in your own words, 'we are an equally matched mistake'.”

"Don't quote my fanfics back at me," Aaron sniffed.

"So you _do_ admit that you're writing fanfics," Alexander smirked.

Only then did Aaron recognize his mistake. He decided not to comment on it. "Well, you haven't murdered anyone," Aaron reasoned.

Alexander smirked. "That's what you _think_ ," he winked.

Aaron groaned. "You're a horrible human being."

Alexander let out a short giggle — an honest-to-God _giggle_. "I see why you prefer to smile rather than talk. Honesty doesn't suit you. Sorry, do go on," he grinned.

Aaron flushed. "This is why I don't confide in you," he retorted without any heat.

“You wound me,” Alexander said, although the effect was ruined by him taking another bite out of the cake. “

“You know,” Aaron began lightly, “people usually compare you with either an unstoppable force or an immovable object, but they're wrong. You're both.”

“So are you,” Alexander said simply. “You're both, and more. I've never met a person with more persistence. What's even more important, though, is that you are a good man.”

_Was he, though? In truth, was he truly a good man?_

He didn't see Alexander move, and only realized that the other man had gotten out of his chair when Alexander put a steadying hand on Aaron's shoulder. Only then did Aaron notice that his body was shaking. He tried to control his body, but to no avail. He looked up at Alexander. His friend's eyes held sympathy, but no pity. _Never_ pity. He knew that, just like Alexander himself, Aaron couldn't stand others' pity, choked on it like on stifling air.

He closed his eyes again. “Thank you, Alexander,” he murmured quietly.

He felt Alexander squeeze his shoulder. It stayed there, and Aaron couldn't be more grateful.

* * *

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@AaronBartow Happy Burr-Day!

* * *

 

 _Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette_ @FrenchBaguette  
@AaronBartow Happy birthday. Don't shoot people again. Especially not @AdotHam

 _Aaron Bartow_ @AaronBartow  
@FrenchBaguette I'm not planning to.

 _Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette_ @FrenchBaguette  
'@AaronBartow: If you talk, you're gonna get shot.' This says otherwise.

 _Aaron Bartow_ @AaronBartow  
@AdotHam '@FrenchBaguette: This says otherwise.' This is why I don't take advise from you.

* * *

 _Stephen Colbert_ @StephenAtHome  
Voting is important. You might get a president you don't really want but that's better than getting a president you REALLY don't want.

Alexander Hampton @AdotHam  
@StephenAtHome I couldn't phrase it better myself, good sir.

* * *

_Featured BuzzFeed articles:_

27 Completely Engrossing _Hamilton_ FanFics You Won't Be Able To Stop Reading

How _Hamilton_ Fan Fiction Helped Me Discover My Sexuality

11 Fan Fiction Writers Turned Professional

13 Seriously Fucked-Up Fanfics

This Gender-Swapped _Hamilton_ Fan Art Is Everything You Need In Your Life

17 Steamy Excerpts From Hamfayette Fanfiction

* * *

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
I'm having inordinate amounts of fun with 'George Washington Is Cash Money'.

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
Cory O'Brien is my favorite kind of historian (except @historylover49 ). I like the idea of the Chase Manhattan Bank being my shrine.

* * *

 _Tim Kaine_ @timkaine  
@JemmyMorrow @InARichMansWorld Motion to implement Ben Franklin's idea to pray for heavenly help before Senate sessions.

 _Allison Drawwood_ @InARichMansWorld  
@timkaine Suggestion seconded.

 _James Morrow_ @JemmyMorrow  
@timkaine @InARichMansWorld Motion denied. We don't need foreign aid.

* * *

 _Tim Kaine_ @timkaine  
@InARichMansWorld Forgot snack. Share yours with me?

 _James Morrow_ @JemmyMorrow  
I have a duty to remind Sec. Drawwood and Sen. Kaine that food is prohibited in the Senate chamber.

 _Allison Drawwood_ @InARichMansWorld  
@AaronBartow 's second most stupid decision, the first being to run for president.

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@InARichMansWorld What about, I don't know, SHOOTING ME?

 _Allison Drawwood_ @InARichMansWorld  
@AdotHam That was @AaronBartow 's one redeeming quality.

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@InARichMansWorld Behold the traitor.

 _Allison Drawwood_ @InARichMansWorld  
@AdotHam If you're going to threaten me with a candle, I'm going to throw up.

 _Tim Kaine_ @timkaine  
@InARichMansWorld Does that mean I get your snack?

 _James Morrow_ @JemmyMorrow  
@timkaine Once more with feeling: No Snacks In The Senate Chamber.

 _James Morrow_ @JemmyMorrow  
@AdotHam Also, get your parrot. It keeps distracting everyone with its screeching, not to mention the fact that it is being rude.

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@JemmyMorrow 'Jeffersonofabitch' is a valid battle cry.

* * *

 _Betsy DeVos_ @BetsyDeVos  
@Francoholic I support equal accountability!

 _Thomas Jenkins_ @Francoholic  
@BetsyDeVos That's all good and well, but can you elucidate as to your meaning?

 _Betsy DeVos_ @BetsyDeVos  
@Francoholic I support equal accountability!

 _Thomas Jenkins_ @Francoholic  
@BetsyDeVos Oh God, you're dumber than I thought.

 _Betsy DeVos_ @BetsyDeVos  
@Francoholic I support equal accountability!

* * *

Eliza dropped by the White House, holding in front of her a plate covered with a white cloth. The Secret Service, showing a level of familiarity Eliza would have thought impossible only two months ago, let her pass without so much as a glance. Really, she thought, that was one hell of a security hole. Even if they knew her, they should have screened her, _especially_ since they assumed that her destination was the Oval Office.

The Oval Office was not her goal, however. Rather, it was the office of the vice president. She hadn't called, opting for keeping her visit a surprise, but now, she regretted that. What if James wasn't there? She imagined that the Vice President of the United States was on high demand, and did not simply sit around in his office all day until Pippa Soo deigned to pay him a visit. She wasn't _that_ self-centered (that was, and had always been, Alexander's job).

She hesitated at the door. It was closed, but she reasoned that it didn't necessarily mean that he was absent. With Alexander in the same building, Eliza understood all too well the burning need for privacy. Still, what if he wasn't there? Would she just leave the plate there for him to find?

Well. There was only way to find out, wasn't there? She knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said a voice from the inside.

Eliza entered, making sure to close the door behind her as she went. She stood in front of James' desk, who made a gesture at the armchair in front of his desk, inviting her to sit.

“Hello, Eliza,” James smiled, tilting his head. “You know, I must say that I haven't been expecting you,” he admitted. “Burr, certainly; Angelica, maybe; but not you.”

“You didn't consider Alexander?” she asked curiously.

He huffed. “Not after you knocked. As you are doubtlessly aware, for Alexander, knocking is an obscure art.”

“Not much has changed, then,” Eliza smiled wistfully. Despite everything, her memory of Alexander was one she treasured above almost all others.

James' focus had meanwhile shifted to the plate in her hands. He furrowed his brows. “What's that? he blinked confusedly.

Eliza stifled a smile. “Tofu,” she said as vaguely as she could.

“That explains,” James drawled, “absolutely _nothing_. Have you thought about going into politics?”

This time, Eliza _did_ smile. “Far too boring for me, I'm afraid,” she replied good-naturedly. “But as to this,” she gestured at the plate, “it's Tofu Day. You know, Benjamin Franklin?” she said, rolling her eyes at his puzzled look. “And I remembered that you said that you were lactose intolerant, so I decided to make tofu.”

“You… _made_ tofu?” James struggled to comprehend the concept. “For me? _Why?_ Also, when did I say that I was lactose intolerant?” he asked in confusion.

“Remember the party after we performed _Hamilton_ at the White House?” Eliza reminded him.

James winced. “The details are a bit blurry,” he admitted.

Eliza snorted. “I should bloody well hope so. You drank almost half of Alexander's alcohol,” she said in a tone that wasn't _quite_ scolding

James still interpreted it as such. He rolled his eyes. “I did two jobs while trying to keep America afloat,” he retorted. “I deserved to break into Alexander's alcohol stash.”

“I never said you didn't,” Eliza smiled. She frowned. “Although, _two_ jobs?”

“The presidency and the vice presidency,” James clarified.

“I heard that Secretary Drawwood said that _she_ was doing the vice president's job,” Eliza said thoughtfully.

“We shared that job,” James said. He sighed. “Eliza, as much as I love to chat with you, I assume that your visit has a purpose beyond gifting me with tofus.”

Eliza bit her lip. “I simply realized that I never got the opportunity to thank you for what you did as president back in the day for myself and for Alexander's legacy. I wanted to thank you for that,” she said, her eyes brimming with gratitude.

Whatever James had been expecting, this wasn't it. His mouth formed a perfect circle as he took in the meaning behind Eliza's words. “Thank you,” he finally stuttered. “I can honestly tell that I haven't bee expecting that.”

Eliza grinned. “I could tell,” she said succinctly.

James blinked at the tofu. He grabbed one and sniffed it, then bit into it experimentally. He emitted a sound of approval. “They taste much better than I expected,” he said, not quite able to mask his surprise at the decent taste of the product.

Eliza hummed. “I've been told that my tofus tend to elicit that reaction in people. The Tofu: Pippa Soo's Secret Weapon,” she dragged her right hand through the air, as if making an invisible poster.

James bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Lovely idea,” he said with approval.

At that moment, the door to James' office was abruptly opened and in stormed Alexander. “Hey, Jemmy, have you seen– Betsey!” his grin split his face into two at the sight of her. She stood up and hugged him. “Good to see you,” he murmured.

“You as well, Alexander,” she said into his hair. Alexander reluctantly took a step back. “I heard from security that you dropped by,” he explained, surveying the office.

Eliza raised an eyebrow. “Does security inform you of every visitor to the White House?” she asked. “I can't imagine you getting much work done in that case.”

He waved away her concerns. “No, they simply recognized you and thought that you were coming to visit me.”

Eliza scoffed. “I do have other friends in the White House beside you,” she felt the need to point out.

“Ah, but none as amazing as myself,” he grinned.

Eliza pretended to contemplate this. “Debatable,” she teased.

Alexander's eyes eventually settled on the batch of tofus. He grimaced. “Tofus?” he said with such sadness that Eliza had to suppress another grin.

“It's not for you,” she said before he could get the idea into his head. “They're James'. Don't touch.”

Alexander smirked at her. “Oh, _really?_ ” with that, he turned to leer at his vice president. “And just what has our esteemed Jemmy done to deserve homemade tofus?”

“Are you saying that what I've done these last few months isn't enough to warrant a batch of tofus?” his face adopted an offended expression, his voice implying that Alexander better answer the question well or there would be _consequences._

Alexander snickered. “Not what I was saying. Stop putting words in my mouth. I say enough stupid things as it is.”

Eliza studied Alexander. “I never said they were homemade,” she said calculatingly.

“Oh please,” Alexander rolled his eyes. “As if you would offer bought tofus as a gift. That would be _rude_ , and the one thing you aren't is rude, dear Eliza.”

Eliza decided to drop the matter – for now. “He helped me secure your legacy back when he was president. You may also remember that as the time you _went and died without giving me prior notice_ ,” she said, a tone of passive-aggressiveness in her voice, and if she was still a little bitter over how Alexander did not deign to inform her of his possibly fatal duel with Burr – well, that was her business.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Burr's the one who shot me, you know,” he reminded her.

“Yes, and I am not saying that he is blameless in this,” Eliza said, “but neither am I shifting all the blame away from _your_ shoulders,” she locked eyes with Alexander.

James raised his hands defensively. “I feel like this is a private conversation that you two should be having in private.”

“We are,” Alexander said without looking away from Eliza.

“No, you're not. You're in my office.”

“You are more than welcome to vacate the premises, so to speak,” Alexander retorted.

James groaned. “It's _my_ office,” he reiterated. “You have yours.”

“Burr is occupying my office,” Alexander said, as if that statement didn't raise more questions than it answered.

James blinked, feeling like he was missing out some vital part of the conversation. “Why is Burr in _your_ office?” he asked. “The last time I checked, the attorney general had an office of his own.”

“There is cake in mine.”

“Alexander,” James gritted his teeth, “if you continue to speak in riddles, I'll just–“

“You're no fun,” Alexander pouted. His expression became more grave. “As you know, it's Burr's birthday. I made him cake.”

“That's… surprisingly thoughtful of you,” Eliza admitted, previous argument temporarily put aside but by no means forgotten.

“You sound surprised,” Alexander replied.

“A bit,” Eliza admitted, “but in a good way. It's nice to see that you've matured, Alex,” the smile she gave him could have lit up the entire room.

It was in that moment that James thought, 'Screw this', and decided that eating cake with Burr was preferable to watching Alexander Hamilton awkwardly make amends to his wife, excellent blackmail material though it was. On second thoughts, he grabbed the batch of tofus as well.

* * *

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
Betsey bribed @JemmyMorrow with tofus. She didn't let me have one. #WhatDoesAmericaTasteLike

 _James Morrow_ @JemmyMorrow  
@AdotHam They are delicious.

 _Aaron Bartow_ @AaronBartow  
@AdotHam I second that opinion.

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@JemmyMorrow @AaronBartow @actual_cinnamon_roll Traitors, the lot of you.

* * *

There were few people who considered the exact, day-to-day consequences of being outed as a famous historical figure – or, if they did, they haven't seen fit to inform Thomas of them. The lack of privacy was obvious and almost expected, but what people forgot – or omitted to tell him – was that, suddenly, every stranger he encountered on the street or in his office assumed that he had the right to give him shit for something that had happened over two centuries ago – something which Thomas could rightfully not be held responsible for, but which people did anyway.

Dammit, he hadn't _wanted_ to be Thomas Jefferson. He didn't need it – didn't want it – despised it. Despised Thomas Jefferson, and everything he stood for.

The only person Thomas had confided in what he has been going through since he has been outed as Thomas Jefferson was John – his sweet, understanding John, who should have left him as soon as he heard who Thomas used to be, but miraculously _didn't_.

So far, there had only really been two ways in which people reacted upon meeting him: worship or condemnation. Thomas didn't know which was worse – the people who loved him because he used to be Thomas Jefferson, populist president whose first focus had always been _power_ , or the people who condemned him because he used to be a slave owner. In Thomas' experience, there were really only those two extremes.

The latter also made fun of him because of the irony – one of the greatest slave owners and an infamous rapist, reborn as a descendant of the people he used to own. If that wasn't proof of the existence of karma, one woman had hissed in his face, nothing was.

And then there were the far-right Republicans who refused to believe that he _was_ Thomas Jefferson, even when the proof was staring them in the face.

They were being stupid, John told him, and Thomas knew this – really, he _did_ – but it didn't stop him from feeling like he was being torn into two, like he was condemned for a sin he hasn't done, a crime he hasn't committed, and felt powerless to do anything about it.

Ironically, one of the few bright sides of his Revelation was Hamilton – or Hampton, now, Thomas supposed. For all that he despised the man's ideas, and probably always would, the man didn't coddle him, but neither did he make him feel attacked. He was one of the few individuals who measured up to him in terms of intelligence, and their debates, over Twitter though they might be, gave Thomas a sense of purpose, and were an outlet for his building frustration. He provided him with some much-needed familiarity.

Sometimes he asked himself whether this was what Sally felt like, even as he knew the answer himself. What he had done to Sally was so much worse. Unforgivable. Among everything that he remembered, Sally Hemings was his one true regret. The way he had violated her body, her rights, her very life–

It did not bear thinking about. He didn't want to think about it.

He saw it every time he closed his eyes. Crime after crime, night after night, holding a hand to her mouth to prevent her screams from echoing around the house even though his staff knew exactly what was going on – did that make them his accomplices?

He had taken to conducting his business mostly through the safety of his home – his co-workers had been watching him not unlike hawks, some full of admiration of his past life, some being plainly creepy ( _“Have you checked out your Wikipedia page? It's like thirty pages long and also linked to Thomas Jefferson and has a lot of cool stuff but I guess you know that already and no, I'm not stalking you”_ ), but most of them staring at him with barely-concealed contempt. He couldn't stand another day of it, and had asked his secretary – also a black woman, incidentally, which put a damper on their previously quite strong friendship – to forward him his work. She had reluctantly agreed, although not before giving him an 'you are being irresponsible and I do not approve' frown that he was all too familiar with from both his lifetimes.

He has not yet dared to speak with any of his clients, for fear of facing a reaction more violent still than that of his co-workers; after all, these people had known him for years, so if _they_ weren't supportive, how could he expect a stranger from the streets to accept him?

John Lawrence was a blessing in his life. Not only did he balance out all of the hate Thomas now received on a regular basis from people who thought that him being Jefferson somehow made it _okay_ for them to threaten him with bodily harm, but he did the things Thomas didn't have the energy or the courage for – groceries, for example.

He had to face his clients eventually. He knew that. His secretary had forwarded him a batch of new cases – it seemed that, in the interim, he had become even more in-demand than he was before, and that's saying something.

One of the cases, Thomas immediately knew he would take, because it reminded him a little too much of Jefferson. He hoped that, by helping out, he would alleviate at least a little of the guilt he had been feeling almost non-stop under his skin for the past four months. A certain Mrs Harrison has sought him out. She was charging her husband with repeated rape and physical assault, and had also filed for divorce papers.

Thomas agreed to help her pretty much as soon as he had seen the file. First – and most importantly – whoever rapes their wife on a regular basis does not deserve her, and yes, Thomas realized the irony of him thinking such things. Second, Mrs Harrison asked for him in particular, and Thomas wanted to discover _why_. What set him apart from other lawyers was, in such cases, his one great advantage – he had been, in his former life, the very thing he now helped combat, so his argument carried more weight when coming from a former rapist. When he brought it up with Mrs Harrison over e-mail, she assured him that it would all work out, and that she did not wish to switch lawyers. “On the contrary,” she had written, “I think you will be in a unique position, Mr Jenkins, to help me.”

And finally, there was one last very reason that made Thomas sympathize with Mrs Harrison more than he would have in any other case (though he sincerely hoped that he would have helped her regardless of his own experiences). This was something Thomas had gone to great lengths to hide, something only his parents knew. Thomas hadn't even told John, out of fear that his partner would treat him differently in light of the new revelations.

Thomas had not been born Thomas. His birth name, the one on his original certificate (which he kept only out of sentiment for his parents), was Theresa.

Thomas was all too familiar with the concept of being taken against his will. There were really no words to sufficiently describe the contradicting duality of such an act – the body reacting to the arousal, the feeling of pleasure coursing through the body, even as the mind revolted and wanted nothing to do with its assailant. The feeling of guilt afterward, the feeling being _unclean_ that he could never quite scrub off, no matter how many times he had showered. Thomas could certainly sympathize.

He had not been able to fully understand, back with Sally. He could now, and he hoped to at least help Mrs Harrison.

A figure came into his view. “Hello,” said John, cutting into Thomas' internal monologue. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yeah, but it's just as well,” Thomas admitted, and John swooped down for a light peck.

He settled next to Thomas on the couch. “Thoughts not going in a good direction?” he began massaging Thomas' back.

Thomas choked back a moan as John worked on a particularly hard knot he hadn't even known was there. “Better direction now,” he said, closing his eyes.

Thomas could practically hear John's smirk. “I should certainly hope so,” his partner said smugly. He captured Thomas' lips in another kiss, one of his hands sneaking down to Thomas' thighs.

Thomas swatted it away, even as he could feel certain parts of him respond to John's light touch. “I have a meeting with a client soon,” he explained, wincing at the half-truth. While it was true that Mrs Harrison was coming by shortly, that wasn't the only reason Thomas had stopped John. All that thinking about his former mistress and about Mrs Harrison and himself, not least of all, had created a great knot of anxiety in his stomach.

“I understand,” John leaned back, withdrawing his hands until they rested in his lap, within Thomas' eyesight, and Thomas let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. He truly did not know how John always seemed to know what to do to put Thomas at ease.

The sound of a car pulling up in their driveway alerted them to their visitor. John stood up. “Well,” he said, “I'll leave you to do your thing. Call me if you need me.”

Thomas nodded, already standing up and straightening his suit. He had made an arrangement with Mrs Harrison, who had agreed to come over to his house to discuss the case. Since he had only taken the case roughly a week ago, he hadn't yet had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Harrison. If he was being truthful with himself, he was feeling apprehensive. What if he couldn't help her? What if he lost the case? What if she decided that she'd rather have someone else? What if she realized that she couldn't work with him? He hadn't realized up until this very moment how much he genuinely needed to be the one to help Mrs Harrison. He didn't know what it was about this particular woman, but his instincts were rarely – if ever – wrong.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, just before he got lost in his own head again. He straightened his posture one last time before opening the door.

Sarah Harrison was a woman of small stature, yet with a hidden fierceness in her green eyes, revealing a wisdom gained only by experiencing things nobody should be forced to live through. John often commented that Thomas had a similar look in his eyes sometimes.

Mrs Harrison tilted her head, which caused her wild red hair to fly all around her face. She surveyed Thomas, looking at him as though he was an interesting piece of art. “Well,” she said at length, “this is certainly a change of circumstances from last time.”

Thomas gave his client a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

Her lips quirked up into a smile. There was something familiar about those eyes. “You really don't know, do you?” she sounded smug.

Thomas shook his head. “Do I know you from anywhere?” he asked.

Mrs Harrison looked away. “Not in this life, Mr Jenkins,” she said cryptically.

Thomas shelved that for later consideration. “Well, Mrs Harrison,” he said, stepping aside, “please do come in.”

Mrs Harrison obliged with a smile. When he offered to take her coat, their fingers accidentally touched, and Mrs Harrison flinched imperceptibly. Thomas noticed but decided not to comment on it. It was probably related to her husband's abuse – he had observed a similar tendency in himself back when he dated Richard (although 'date' was probably the wrong word to describe their all-too-long relationship; a more accurate term would be 'dangerous one-sided emotional dependence').

“Sarah Harrison,” the woman introduced herself, “although you probably know me better as Sally Hemings.”

The floor seemed to sway under Thomas' feet. His head abruptly exploded with a thousand thoughts, all flitting past too quickly for him to properly grasp. The only thought that was clear enough for him was _I_ knew _she seemed familiar._

**Author's Note:**

> Let's play a game called 'spot the Moana reference'.
> 
> Sally isn't tagged because, although I hoped that I left a few clues along the text, I wanted to kind of keep it as a surprise. Also, the last part turned out darker than I'd initially planned.
> 
> Did you like it? How would you see the upcoming Thomas & Sally interaction? Anything would be helpful, as I have too many ideas that aren't interconnected as to where this can go.


End file.
